


Scholar and Soldier

by Adlanth



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:18:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adlanth/pseuds/Adlanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erestor enters Caranthir's household as a scholar, only to have Caranthir decide that he will make a warrior out of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ansileran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ansileran/gifts).



> Written for the following prompt: "Erestor is a member of Caranthir's household, not a warrior. Caranthir decides to make a warrior out of him. First Age, Thargelion. Please try to keep Caranthir as canon as possible. Apart from that, how you get Erestor in Caranthir's bed (whether it's coerced or not) is up to you."

_In his dreams he can see the silhouette, the sword. The ship's deck moves under his feet, slick with blood in the starlight._

 

***

 

'I shall miss Aglon,' Erestor said. 

'Will you now.' Lord Curufin did not raise his eyes but went on writing. He had a fine hand: his letters were well shaped, the lines straight, swift and yet careful. He could have been the scribe, and Erestor the master. _But then_ , thought Erestor, _his lord and the letters shared a father_.

Then Curufin tapped the end of his quill to his lips, and looked up briefly. 

'Do you mean to say that you have particular attachments here?' he asked. 'If that is the case, I am sure you can bring her with you. My brother is unlikely to object. Or to notice.' 

'No,' Erestor said. 'No... particular attachments of that sort. Only family.' Curufin had gone back to his letter. 'And Aglon itself.'

'You'll be back soon enough, if you so wish,' Curufin said. He had signed off now: _quessë_ and _formen, K_ and _F, Kurufinwë Fëanarion._ No flourishes: only the pleasing symmetry of the letters. He sprinkled a dusting of sand over the fresh ink, then looked up at Erestor again, dark eyes glancing from under dark brows. 'And if you work swiftly enough, of course. You'll be sending copies to my brother in the Gap.' 

Erestor nodded. 

'Have you met my brother before? Caranthir, I mean.' 

'I saw him when he came visiting. I would not say we have met.' 

Curufin raised a quizzical eyebrow. Of course: he was a prince; when he saw someone, he was seen in return; acknowledged; his name remembered, if not preceding him. And in return he need not remember much of the likes of Erestor, or ponder their more puzzling pronouncements. So his face smoothed again, and he said:

'You will have heard of his temper.'

'I am... aware of it.'

'There is no need to be coy. I am not sending you to his household to play the sycophant - I am not sending you to _Maglor,_ after all!' (He smiled at his own jest, and paused, as if making note of it for later use.) 'Or to play anything at all. If all goes well he shall hardly notice you, which would be for the best. In any case your business is with the Dwarves, or rather with their tongues. And where the study of secretive things is concerned, then it does to be secretive oneself.'

 

***

 _Be quiet. Unseen. Don't let him notice you_.

Erestor could do this much. It was what he had been doing for a long while now. How had he even been singled out for this task? He could picture Curufin's chief loremaster, looking over the rows of scribes and scholars in the main library; peering at them (he was a long-necked fellow, who would watch over his scholars from his elevated chair, with a bird-like tilt of the head), seeking for one that would do the work well - but not be missed too much either. His eye must have alighted on Erestor at last, standing at his lectern on the far end of a row, dipping his quill in the inkwell; and he must have said to himself, absent-mindedly: _Yes, I suppose I could spare this one_.

 

***

 

The morning of his departure, Erestor was awoken by the sound of birds, and on rising saw a pale sky outside his window. It was summer, and early still. Had he been alone, he might have set out then, while it was still cool; for the day promised to be hot. But he was not to leave without escort; or rather the travelling party was not to leave without him, one of the many items, as it were, of cargo... The caravan had come from Eglarest by the sea-shore, through Tumhalad to Tol Sirion; there it had received the wealth of Hithlum, before travelling on through Dorthonion; at last it had reached them in the pass of Aglon, and it would go further still, to the eastern borders of Beleriand.

Having made his way up through the town's streets, Erestor found the main courtyard of the fortress bustling with soldiers. Most went about busily, and seemed not even to see him; a few glanced at him as he walked by in his search for the caravan's master, to whom he had been told to present himself. He had known they would be here (in spite of the leaguer it would not do to have such a rich company travel unarmed through the marches of East Beleriand) and yet he felt vaguely ill out of place among this throng of soldiers, with their glistening sword pommels, and their bright helms, and armours whose scales clinked as they walked. And they walked with such a sure step - certain that whoever was before them would step aside - and step aside was precisely what Erestor did. He had thought of arming himself; at night, in his rooms, he'd retrieved a dagger, an old, nearly forgotten gift, from a drawer, and he had slipped it beneath his belt. The dagger was very fine, but he felt uneasy wearing it - ridiculous, even. He could square his shoulders, and strut; but anyone, he thought, could look at him and know how little he could do with the blade: cut his cheese, and, perhaps, if he was daring, his meat? _No_ , he'd thought ruefully; he had eyes, and ears, and a mind, but in his hand a blade would ever sit uncomfortably _. (As well it should,_ a small voice whispered at the back of his mind. _As well it should_.)

So after all he had taken off the dagger (in any case its handle, tapering to an elegant point, grazed his flank uncomfortably as he walked about his room, clad as he was in a simple linen shirt), though he had stuffed it among his pack as an afterthought. Now, thinking about the attempt (this had been half-a-dozen days ago) he could only roll his eyes at himself. At least on this fine morning he was only clad in his scribe's attire, though with a warmer jerkin than usual, and a travelling cloak; he was not attempting to pass himself as other than himself.

And after a while Erestor did find the elf he was seeking. The master of the caravan was standing at the far end of the courtyard, half-way up the short flight of stairs leading up to the main inner gate, conferring with some soldiers; as Erestor neared, the soldiers went away, only to be replaced by other travellers (with inquiries about - from what snatches Erestor could hear - horses, and wagons), then others. At last he was alone; Erestor approached.

'Good-' he began, but the man spoke over him: without anger, but wearily, saying: 

'And what do _you_ want?' 

'...morning,' Erestor went on. 'I am Erestor.'

'And what should that mean to me?'

This time Erestor really was taken aback. 

'Nothing,' he said after a moment. 'Only I was told to present myself to you. I am to travel with you to Thargelion.'

The man had a roll of parchment in his hand, which he had been consulting before; now as Erestor explained himself he made to tuck it back into a leather tube at his waist - and then half pulled it out again - slid it back in. 

'Erestor,' he said at last. 'Yes, I think I remember now. Your lord's steward told me about you.' He patted the leather tube: a list of the travellers and goods, Erestor assumed. Then he started walking, leaving the courtyard, and Erestor followed. They spoke as they walked. 'I'm not sure exactly why they told you to come to me. You are to be a book-keeper in Thargelion, is that it?'

'A scholar,' Erestor said. 'I am a student of languages, not numbers.'

'If you like,' said the man. 'I only assumed, since you were going as far as Thargelion...' 

'No scholars ever go to Thargelion?'

'No,' said the man, laughing. 'Sometimes warriors as well, and,' here he gestured at the wagons which they had now reached, 'merchants. And some who are a little of both, like myself.' 

'And like Lord Caranthir?'

'Like him, yes. Only I would not call him a merchant - or banker - not in his brothers' hearing at any rate. He's won great riches for his family by imposing his tariffs on the Naugrim – but to hear all his noble kinsmen, you'd think that the gold stained his hands.' And there his face darkened. 'As if he and his brothers hadn't done far worse things to sully themselves than to earn a little coin.'

'I'll try to remember.'

Over the rooftops the sky was lightening still; soon it would truly be day, and hot. About them the crowd moved; the horses neighed; dogs barked in answer. Someone hailed Erestor's companion; in a moment the man was gone to attend to whatever was the matter. 

 

***

 

So they set out, a slow trickle flowing down the mountain pass, to the north and west. On either side, on the slopes, were the fortifications that Celegorm and Curufin had made. Erestor glanced at the northern fortress, which had been built to withstand the worst of an attack, should Morgoth rouse himself from the North; then he looked to the fortress's twin to the south and east, and the town that nestled beneath it on the hill slopes, on the road to Himring. He had spent many decades there, in the service of Curufin; but as he and his companions walked east it receded behind them. At last he turned again, but could not see it, hidden in the hills. The wind that ever blew in the pass of Aglon picked up, and it seemed to cut, like a cold blade, through Erestor's cloak and clothes. It made him shudder, and yet it was bracing too, like the bright sunlight upon them.

So they travelled on. Mere days brought them to the foothills below Himring. There they paused for a few days, on the outskirts of the town, in the shadow of lord Maedhros's castle. Some went to the fortress (and some came from it to join the caravan), but Erestor remained with his fellow travellers. They were a mixed band, he had realised: mostly Noldor, some Sindar, even a few Edain - hardy folks whom the quick pace and endurance of the Eldar tired, but who would nonetheless linger by the fire at night. There were even a handful of Naugrim, with whom Erestor had naturally been eager to converse. But they had raised dark, wary eyes at his coming near their camp fire, and spoke only halting Sindarin; his attempts at talking in Khuzdul had been met with cold, affronted silence. After that he had not been able to find them again.

Still, the journey was pleasant enough, and Erestor did not want for companions. On some nights, he would seek the company of minstrels - or, at any rate, of anyone with a harp and a good singing voice; for the caravan did not lack for people willing to earn a meal with a song or three. Then, when the song was done, and the singer sore-throated, they would simply sit and share news - that is, gossip from all the realms.

One night, Erestor found himself among a group of warriors. They were young, which Erestor could tell simply from glancing at their eyes, for they were Noldor, and yet lacked the light of the Trees. From what he had gathered, some had come from Dorthonion, leaving the people under Angrod and Aegnor's lordship to join with the travellers just a fortnight before, but who had scarcely left Dorthonion before. Others were lordlings or warriors of Thargelion, followers of Caranthir's, now returning home. All, to Erestor's eyes, seemed brash, eager to prove themselves. Their lords, cousins though they were, were known to dislike one another, but as they travelled these warriors were forced into a camaraderie of sorts. They were forbidden from quarrelling, and at the very least from drawing blood, under pain of being expelled at once from the relative safety of the caravan; but from time to time they would spar, in good humour - and perhaps (so it was rumoured) do more.

Erestor watched them move about in the moonlight: lithe youths, lean maids. They used mere wooden sticks for swords, but their mail shirts glittered - at least, until one decided to doff his, sweating in the summer heat that lingered even at night, and the rest followed suit. Erestor wondered if that was wise, but then... the mellow wine, and the heat, and the long day's walking, had loosened his limbs, and he was not inclined, just at that moment, to worry. Instead he watched them: those long booted legs moving swiftly and gracefully, those heaving chests - the thrust of a blade...

'You,' one of the warriors said suddenly. Erestor, lost in contemplation, did not realise at once that he was being addressed. He had sunk into the grass, lying on his back, with his head pillowed on his crossed hands. 'You,' said the man again. 'You've been watching us for a while. Why don't you spar with us?'

'I'm no warrior,' said Erestor, smiling. 'Only a scholar.' He raised himself on an elbow.

The man walked over to him. There was a slight sway to his gait, a swagger that hinted at drunkenness. 

'And we're only playing.' He raised his pretend-sword, held it above Erestor. 'With wooden sticks. No harm done.' He tapped Erestor's chest with his stick, then let it rest there.

Erestor sat up, took the end of the shaft, raised it a little so it stopped pressing against his chest. Still he kept his hand wrapped around it. The wood beneath his palm was smooth and warm. 

'I believe you, but I'll decline,' he said. 'I was about to leave you to your games and turn in.'

Above him, the man remained unmoving, looking down at him; and so, for a while, did he. There was an unspoken invitation in those eyes, Erestor realised; an invitation to... take the fight to another field, he supposed. The man's - the youth's, really, for he was little more than that - eyes flickered aside, glancing at a nearby copse, where others of their little party had been seen to stray. And then he looked at Erestor again. For a moment Erestor hesitated, thinking of the lithe grace of the warrior's bodies. For he _had_ been looking at them; this much he could not deny.

Then he raised his eyes to the man, saw his silhouette against the night sky. The shoulders slack, the sword held loosely in his hand, the arm held out. _The ship lurched beneath him, its deck slick._ He thought he might be sick, from the wine or worse.

So he pushed the stick aside, stood up, shook his head. 'Really,' he said, 'I'll leave you to your play.' And at that the man gave a shrug and a bow - an awkward combination - and clasped his shoulder, and with a last, mumbled 'fare thee well, then, scholar,' he turned aside.

As he made his way to the cot he'd laid by the side of the wagon that held his belongings, Erestor wondered if perhaps he'd been wrong to refuse. He laid beneath a light blanket, looking up at the stars. Would it have been so wrong, to roll in the dry grass and brush with a young soldier? As he fell asleep he saw, playing again against the darkness of his lids, the warrior's dance: the lunge, the thrust, the swords flitting against one another, and then touching...

 

***

 

After Himring, they went through the gap, travelling through hilly country that softened, between the arms of little and great Gelion, into more fertile land. It was hay-making time in the gap, and the fields by the road were fragrant with the scent of dry grass. At night they made their camp beside one of the many small castles that dotted the march; all nominally under the lordship of Maglor, though the lord himself (it was said) was more likely to be found with his eldest brother on Himring, or even in the cities of the West, than in those sleepy little fortresses.

Then, in the distance, they began to see the mountains: a line of blue on the horizon, that broadened as they walked; then peaks etched against the sky. _The walls of the world_ , _or of Beleriand at least,_ Erestor thought with a shiver. _The end of the maps._ Of those he had seen so far, at any rate - but who knew what he might learn?

And there, too, up in the mountains, was the home of his lord to-be, and that made Erestor wonder. As they went on, and up, the land grew to be as harsh as it had been in Aglon - and then harsher still. Yet it was not without beauty. 

 

***

 

It was evening when they reached Helevorn, and the fortress on the slopes of Mount Rerir. Had they been any less close to their goal, the master of the caravan would have called a halt by that time, but as it was they pressed on. The night, in any case, was very fine. The day's heat lingered in the air, but not so much as to be unpleasant, and the sky above was clear: a limpid yellow and pink glow lingered in the west, but before them, above the mountains, shone many brightening stars. And all this - the sky, the peak of mount Rerir, the stars - was reflected in the waters of the lake, that lay dark and smooth as glass beneath the road, beyond a narrow band of pale sand.

Then, at last, they were beneath the fortress's walls, that rose high above them, so high now that Erestor had to crane his neck to see the top of the battlements, a jagged black line against the sky, merlons crowned with high iron spikes. At the sight of those sharp things, Erestor felt a shudder run through him. Not for fear exactly - but a queer sense of anticipation. For there was something about this fortress that was more war-like than anything in Aglon even, or Himring. And again he thought of his future lord, of whom he had heard fell things...

As if in answer to his thoughts, there was a sudden noise behind him - shouts and neighs, the clattering of hooves - rising noise coming upon them, like a storm, or the alarms of war. They were under attack, Erestor thought, in a single moment of helpless fear; and he wished for the knife he had buried in his pack - the knife he could not use... But then he was thrust unceremoniously aside by the man who walked by him, stumbling onto a grassy bank at the side of the road - only the man, Erestor realised a moment later, had only meant to spare him from being driven beneath the hooves of a coming horse. For there, riding briskly by, were only Elves, clad in fine hunting attire, making their way through wagons and walkers. 

'Caranthir!' someone shouted, 'lord Caranthir!' Erestor, raising his head, pushed himself to his feet, Just then an Elf rode before him, dressed more finely than the rest: dark clothes, but upon his chest there was an eight-pointed star in gold and silver thread, that to Elven eyes glinted faintly in the twilight. There was a sword at his hip, and a bow and quiver at his back.

Around Erestor, more cheers were raised, but Caranthir - for Erestor indeed recognised him, from those glances in Aglon - only raised his hand briskly. Then, a moment later, he was far away already - the golden tip of his bow catching the very last of the day's light. 


	2. Chapter 2

Erestor was received in a vast, airy room high up in the keep. Two of the walls had wide, arched windows, and in truth seemed more air than stone; they gave a view of the lake, dark and glassy in the shadow of the mountains, for it was very early still, and although the sky was clear, the sun had not yet passed over the peaks. Beyond the lake, to the west, was the rocky country through which Erestor and his companions had travelled on their way to Thargelion. The other two walls were almost entirely covered by shelves; on these were stacked many thick leather-bound ledgers, as well as, here and there, supplies of ink and parchment, sand, oil for the lamps. The walls beyond were hung with thick draperies, dark red and nearly black. There was a row of high writing tables too, but none of the clerks sat there yet.

Behind the one lectern that faced them, however, stood one man, peering at the letter from lord Curufin that Erestor had given him. His name was Gartherdir, Erestor had learned, and he was lord Caranthir's chief councillor and steward, which Erestor might have been hard pressed to guess by himself: the man, tall and well-built, with a heavy jaw, though not unhandsome, corresponded to Erestor's idea of a warrior rather than to that of a clerk. And yet in his way of peering closely at the letter, his head tilted, there was something that reminded Erestor of his own master in Aglon. He nodded as he read.

'Very well,' he said. 'We'll give you a room, and the allowances lord Curufin requires...'

There was a sound behind Erestor, a door being opened. He did not turn, but Gartherdir raised his eyes, then, straightening just a fraction (for he had already been standing erect at his lectern), called out: 'Good morrow to you, my lord.'

At that Erestor started a little, and turned. And there he was indeed: Thargelion's lord, that he had only glimpsed before. Behind him the door - caught, no doubt, by a draught from one of those wide windows - suddenly slammed shut. Again Erestor flinched, but lord Caranthir did not seem to mark the sound, or to mark him, Erestor, either.

'Yes, good morning,' he said, moving quickly to stand next to Gartherdir. 'What is that?' he asked, with a toss of the chin at the letter that Gartherdir still held.

'Nothing you need concern yourself with, my lord,' said Gartherdir.

'I'll concern myself however I want,' said Caranthir. 'Is that Curufinwë's hand?'

'It is. The letter arrived with the caravan.' Gartherdir handed the scroll to Caranthir, who snatched it up. That was what Erestor first noticed about him, rather than his clothes (dark, he recalled later: a black velvet doublet carelessly laced, linen trousers, scuffed boots), or his features: no, not that, but how he moved, quickly, roughly - but, for now at least, carelessly rather than in anger. He stood, half turned away from Erestor and Gartherdir, and flicked the scroll open. Erestor stared at some point in the air, not too low and not too high, though from the corner of his eye he glanced at Caranthir, watching him shift slightly from one foot to another, raise a hand to scratch his jaw.

'If I am stingy!' he exclaimed suddenly.

'My lord?' said Gartherdir.

'Curufinwë says that I am to give some man of his food and shelter, and whatever he may require, but that if I am _sting_ y' (the word poured like acid from Caranthir's lips) 'Curufinwë shall be glad enough to send me however much it cost me and more. Stingy! You'll write to my little brother, Hartaheru, tell him he need not... strain the paltry wealth of Aglon, and that I'll supply his man with my own goods... food, firewood' (he glanced at the letter again) 'candles...'

Suddenly he seemed to notice Erestor.

'And what are you?' he asked.

'Erestor, my lord-'

'The man lord Curufinwë sends to you,' Gartherdir added.

Caranthir turned to his councillor again.

'And what does he want two pounds of candles per week for?'

'He is a scholar, my lord. He'll want to write at night.'

'We'll put him in a room to the south-west, with wide windows. Sunlight will spare candles.' He turned to Erestor. 'And what sort of a scholar are you?'

'A _lambengolmo_ , my lord,' Erestor answered.

As he spoke he realised that Caranthir, since he had arrived, had been speaking in Quenya, and that he, and Gartherdir - Hartaheru as Caranthir called him -, had answered in the same language. In Aglon, that lay so close to Doriath, and through which Sindar were oft seen to travel, Thingol's edict had been well respected, even by their lord. But here, with Maedhros's land and the wilds of east Beleriand between them, perhaps it did not matter so much - or perhaps that was only lord Caranthir, speaking as he wished. In any case Erestor felt a twinge of unease - having been scolded too often, in those first years after the edict, not to cringe at the sound of his native tongue.

'And what is there here for you to study?' Caranthir asked. 'If Curufinwë means to transform my household into a hive of _lambengolmor_ , he had better tell me in advance. In the meantime, I doubt you'll find much to interest you here. It's to Makalaurë that he should have sent you.'

'My lord Curufinwë means for me to study Khuzdul, my lord.'

'Khuzdul? That tongue's as unsightly as those who speak it.'

Judging by Caranthir's tone, the ugliness of the Naugrim's tongue was Erestor's personal fault. Taken aback, Erestor stammered out a 'Perhaps.' Then: 'But my lord wishes for me to study it nonetheless. One of your scribes wrote to him, saying that she had been conversing with Dwarves as they passed through your land, and had assembled some little glossary, as well as the reticence of the Naugrim allowed, but that the help of a scholar might be needed...'

'Your brother's letter says as much, my lord,' Gartherdir added.

Caranthir had been staring hard at Erestor all the while, with eyes of such a dark grey as to be nearly black, standing quite still; he stared as if that stammered 'perhaps' had raised his interest, the way a sign of fear alerts a hound.

'Atarinkë, ever emulating our father, in _lambë nólë_ as in anything else,' he said at last. 'Though I'm not sure what Father would have made of the Naugrim.' Then he grinned suddenly, though it was a rather grim and wolfish grin. 'It'll help with our negotiations with them, at least. They're quite fond of carrying on their little conversations between themselves, while we can't understand a word of what the rude, stunted creatures say.'

And with that he seemed... not merry exactly, or joyful, for all that he grinned - but of a lighter humour: volatile, but at least without that grim intensity. He turned to Gartherdir again, and his steward, at that, opined.

'I am sure it will prove to be a fine endeavour, my lord.'

Erestor, catching Gartherdir's eye, nodded dutifully in assent.

'Very good,' Caranthir went on. He slapped Gartherdir's shoulder, then turned aside, strode away, and left the room as swiftly as he had come. The door slammed shut again behind him.

When Erestor stopped staring at the door, and turned to face Gartherdir again, he found the councillor smiling at him faintly and indulgently.

'You will become used to him,' he said.

 

***

 

After that, he settled into life in Thargelion - which was not so different, after all, from life in Aglon. But were they not sister cities, for all that the brothers ruling them were so dissimilar - the elder brash and hot, the younger cool and crafty? In both of these northern fortresses, a martial spirit reigned. At dawn bells rang, and all of Caranthir's people assembled in the halls below - an army of craftsmen and servants, cooks and scribes... and of warriors too, of course: soldiers who, though the day was barely begun, were garbed in glistening mail, their dagger and sword by their side, chin held high. They all ate together; but the lord sat on his dais with his closest councillors, and such of his vassals as were visiting, and his soldiers sat below the dais but before the rest. Afterwards, all went about on their daily tasks - yet Erestor could scarcely cast a glance outside his window, or walk about the hallways, without seeing some warrior on his round, cloak flapping.

In the evening the bells rang again, but their summons was less urgent; if he had worked that day to his satisfaction, Erestor would find himself in the streets beneath the main fortress, loitering as he pleased. It did not do, however, to miss the third ringing of the bells; for at that time the great gates of the castle were drawn shut, and the night's watch took their posts on the battlements, and no man, howsoever well-known, was admitted within, unless he had Caranthir's most express permission. Once or twice, in those early days when he was glad to walk along the shores of lake Helevorn in the evening, Erestor had found himself locked without - but he'd learned... and in any case, he could easily pay for a night's sleep in one of the town's inns, and be none the worse for it. He was not a soldier, not bound to their strenuous exercises, the sounds of which he heard, now and again, of a morning, from his window: the clacking of metal against wood, distant shouts.

He heard; he need not take part. He set himself his own tasks, and laboured hard, but in silence, in his study; a fine, if austerely furnished, room that, as promised, opened not onto the bare, harsh country to the North but onto the dark, smooth waters of the lake below, and the line of green beyond it that, on some particularly clear days, revealed itself to be a vast wood. Not that Erestor spent much time staring out.

Most days he worked with Rhungwen, who had first written to send Curufin this Khuzdul glossary of hers. She was no scholar, as she had explained, shrugging, when they'd met; or at least not yet. Her ordinary duties were rather tedious, for she spent many hours recording the number and manner of goods which entered Beleriand. But during those long hours she'd also heard much of the Naugrim's speech - most of it merely gleaned as the Dwarves spoke among themselves, and a smattering told to her by younger, less secretive members of that strange people.

Erestor marvelled to hear this, and for a brief while feared himself unnecessary. Rhungwen, however, had been born in Beleriand, and so (unlike Erestor) she had never learned in the great school of the _Lambengolmor_ of Tirion; and in Thargelion she had found too few books to learn by herself. Though Erestor suspected her grasp of the matter of surpassing his own, there were still some ways in which he could help, studying the finer points of _lambelë_ and _tengwesta..._

Pleasant, interesting work. He had been able to write to Curufin, and to Maglor, and to tell them already of the advancement of his and Rhungwen's treatise on Khuzdul. He liked to think of the book it would make: a slim volume, perhaps, for now, but laid out in his neat, smooth hand. From time to time, he ran into Gartherdir, who always asked him about his work. Caranthir's chief councillor always listened attentively (though Erestor never knew how much he truly knew about the subject, or whether he really was interested at all), with a tilted head and understanding nods at the appropriate times; then he would briefly clasp Erestor's arm, and say something complimentary; and, smiling apologetically, and with a jesting tone, add: 'One merely wants to know that you are earning your keep,' or something to that effect.

And sometimes, Erestor saw Caranthir. The man, he realised, never seemed to be still; he was always moving from one spot to the next, stalking to and fro on those long, restless legs of his. He was most often garbed in (well cut, luxurious-looking) black, clothes matching the darkness of his hair; a sword, or at least a dagger, always swung at his side. Erestor rarely heard him speak, but he sometimes heard him laugh - a bark-like, dangerous laughter, a sound rather like thunder.

 

  
***

 

It was autumn, when Erestor spoke to his lord again. He met him by chance, late one afternoon, as he and Rhungwen were making their way down a walkway to the main hall. To their right, high windows opened onto the west, fading sunlight streaming in from a courtyard; on the other side were arched doors leading to the inner rooms of the fortress. They heard Caranthir's voice, and others', echoing on the stone, long before they saw him; and when Erestor turned to say a word to Rhungwen, he found that she had ducked into one of the doorways, and was speeding away, her brown cape fluttering. He would have followed, but a moment later a voice rang out behind him.

'You?' Erestor spun about. 'Yes, you.' The voice was one he did not recognise. 'Don't I know you?'

Caranthir, and the gaggle of lordlings about him, had come up to Erestor. So much for being unseen, unheard. He gave a quick, shallow bow. 'My lords.'

'It _is_ you,' said the one who had hailed Erestor. Caranthir turned to him, saying:

'You know him?'

'I do,' the elf answered, and at that moment Erestor knew him for the soldier that he had met on his journey. A smile played on his lips, and he added: 'He's a great warrior.'

What possessed him to say that, Erestor did not know, though he remembered the invitation to spar; only there was a merry light in the other's eyes. Caranthir seemed equally taken aback.

'You've made some mistake, Colchallon' he said, scowling. 'This is Eregor, and he is a scholar. A _lambengolmo_ , who taught in my father's school in Tirion.'

'Is he?' said Colchallon. 'Then 'tis his father who must have been a great warrior.'

'He was not,' Erestor snapped. 'I am...' _Should he correct lord Caranthir, or let it go?_ 'I am a scholar, as you said,' he went on. 'My lord Colchallon here was only jesting.'

'I was,' said Colchallon. 'But were you not saying, my lord' (here he turned to Caranthir, whose scowl had barely begun to fade) 'that according to the laws of Thargelion, all were to be warriors?'

'True,' Caranthir answered. 'But the man's only newly come. I could easily make a warrior of him if I wished.'

'I doubt it, my lord. I'd wager that he'll be reluctant,' (Colchallon's answer, spoken lightly, as if Erestor - or, for that matter, neither of the pair of soldiers that listened to the conversation - was not there.)

'My lord, forgive me, but there's no need...' said - stammered - Erestor.

'As I said,' quipped Colchallon. But he need not have spoken: already Caranthir was turning back towards Erestor, like a hound aroused - and irked - by Erestor's reticence.

'No need? That's not for you to decide, scribe.' His dark eyes glinted as he walked up to Erestor, and stabbed at him with a raised forefinger. 'My brother may have liked you enough as a coddled scribbler, but in _my_ household you will do as I see fit. And if it's a warrior I want, then you'll be one.' (Erestor could not help it; he had inched back and away from Caranthir. That only seemed to enrage his lord further. Caranthir stepped forward again, and seemed to _growl_.) 'It's the law, damn you! All who live in Thargelion must know how to fight.'

Erestor nodded, and in a low, toneless voice said: 'As you wish, my lord.'

'I'll train you myself,' Caranthir said. Up close, and angry, he was red cheeked indeed. Erestor nodded wordlessly. Caranthir eyed him a moment longer, brows drawn. 'I'll see you on the morrow, then.' And then he edged past Erestor, his companions following. The sounds of their steps on the paving stones faded.

Still feeling the smart of Caranthir's anger, Erestor leant on a window sill, looking out into the courtyard beyond. It was not Caranthir's words exactly - but the way he spoke them, eyes blazing, mouth twisted. At least his anger vanished as swiftly as it arose; in fact Caranthir himself, Erestor recalled, seemed surprised afterwards, like a man ambushed by himself. But as for this decision of his... Erestor looked down at his hands: pale and narrow, the fingers long and ink-stained. How could such hands grasp a sword? The notion seemed ridiculous to him, distasteful even.

A hand was laid on his shoulder, and he whirled round. For half a second he thought it was Caranthir, come to scold him again. But it was only Colchallon.

'Thank you,' Erestor said grimly. 'I'd not tasted of our lord's anger before.'

'I'm sorry,' said Colchallon. 'I didn't think he'd take it this way.' He shrugged. 'But his bark is worse than his bite.'

Erestor could barely refrain from scowling, though he did not answer. _For you,_ he thought _, I suppose Caranthir is harmless enough_. Colchallon, from what he could gather, was a lordling's son, and a warrior. Of course he was Caranthir's sort of man, and could weather his anger easily. _The brash, inconsequential, silly youth..._ If Caranthir had turned his wrath against him, he would have shrugged it off as easily as he was shrugging off Erestor's exasperation now. If Caranthir stopped his barking, and bit, he could bite back. No wonder he could stand there and smile.

But now... now Caranthir was proposing to make a warrior out of him - him, Erestor, who in his life had never desired it. Who could only think of... (But he would _not_ think it.) When he grumbled as much to Colchallon, the other merely shrugged.

'You should be glad he's offering to teach you,' he said. 'He's a terrific swordsman. And in any case... by morning he'll have forgotten it all, and you'll be able to go on in your scholarly ways...'

'Do you think so?'

'It's likely. You've seen him. Quick to anger and... quick to forgetfulness, I suppose.'

Erestor considered him for a second longer, then turned to the courtyard again. On the other side, loudly marching down the walkway opposite, was yet another armour-clad, sword-swinging group of Elves. He thought of the sword, and the ship. He sighed.

'I hope you're right,' he said.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All OCs named thanks to the lovely [Sindarin name generator](http://elffetish.com/SindaFrame1.php) at elffetish.com. The mistakes are my own.
> 
> lambengolmo = loremaster of tongues (from the school founded by Fëanor)  
> lambelë = phonetics  
> tengwesta = grammar, morphology


	3. Chapter 3

He was awoken by loud knocking at his door. Starting up, he scrambled to find and pull on a shirt, then a robe. Though the room was still dark, window shutters drawn, he made his way out of his small, sparse bedroom and into the study beside it. The knocking had not yet stopped. _Was it late, had he overslept, was it Rhungwen already?_ But she would have knocked softer, not made this damned racket...

'Quiet,' Erestor hissed as he drew open the door. 'You'll wake... my lord!' 

Caranthir did not reply, merely thrust a sheathed sword in Erestor's general direction and, as Erestor moved to grab it, pushed past him and into the room. Erestor, momentarily dumb-founded, turned to follow him. For a moment he merely stayed silent behind Caranthir, as his lord threw open the study's shutters, a second sword tucked beneath his arm. It was not yet dawn.

'A view to the south-west,' Caranthir said. 'Sunlight for the scholar.' He turned back to Erestor.

'Yes, my lord,' Erestor said. 'I am sorry.' (A flicker of irritation crossed Caranthir's face as he apologised.) 'I had not recognised you.' Then, still befuddled by sleep, he spoke without thinking. 'How did you find me, my lord?'

To his surprise, Caranthir... did not laugh, exactly, but gave a quick, wry smile.

'This is my fortress, Eregor. I can ask my steward where a member of my household sleeps.' 

'Erestor,' Erestor answered absent-mindedly. 'Not Eregor.' 

Half a moment later he wondered if that would anger Caranthir. But Caranthir merely looked at him with a puzzled air, then shrugged. 'The steward understood me well enough. I asked after a scholar from Aglon. In any case, I should not have been seeking you.' His face darkened. It amazed Erestor, really: he did not know how Caranthir did it, or what changed exactly... but his face darkened as the sky does before a storm. _Moryofinwë_ , he thought. Dark, and not only of hair.

Caranthir went on. 'I gave you an order yesterday. I said I meant to make a warrior of you, and I will.'

'I did not know when to come, or where... But my lord, there is no need. I have no desire to know how to fight.' Even the sword Caranthir had given him seemed to weigh awkwardly in his arms.

Caranthir's dark gaze rested on Erestor.

'I said I would train you. It is the law of my land.' He paused, and seemed to think. 'And besides... I noticed you before.'

 _A blatant lie_ , Erestor thought. _You noticed_ Eregor _\- if you noticed anyone at all._ And yet, in spite of his suspicions, he also felt oddly flattered. And Caranthir _had_ sought him out. Out of pride, perhaps, having made that promise in front of his men, but still. _And besides, better this than Caranthir's anger._ He gave the smallest of shrugs.

'As you wish, my lord. Only be warned that I will likely be a terrible pupil.'

'We'll see,' said Caranthir. 'I'll meet you in the Knives' Yard.'

 

***

 

There was little for it, then, but to obey. After Caranthir had gone, Erestor hurriedly slipped on a pair of loose dark trousers, and the soft leather boots he had worn on his journey. What was it exactly that soldiers wore as they trained? He could not recall. His linen shirt, he hoped, would do. It was loose enough not to hinder his movements, but without the wide, trailing sleeves that he favoured when clad formally. The robe he kept, for the citadel was chilly still at this time of the day. And he still had the sword that Caranthir had left with him: a blade that was plain enough, not too heavy, and - as he discovered when he drew it from its scabbard - blunt-edged.

He made his way to the Knives' Yard, hoping he would not get lost on the way. If he recalled correctly, it lay somewhere to the eastern side of the citadel, not far from the soldiers' main training yard. Now he remembered: that one was called the Swords' Yard (as he had been told a week or so after his arrival, when he had mistakenly stumbled there), and the other, which was mostly reserved for lord Caranthir's use, the Smaller Swords' Yards - thereafter called (at first in jest, but the name had stuck) the Knives' Yard. 

The corridors and walkways that led there were mostly silent and deserted at this hour. Erestor still did not know what time it was exactly, but Caranthir, by the looks of it, was an early riser. This suited Erestor. He had not liked to be so rudely awoken, but at least there were fewer chances of his being seen. 

When he reached the Knives' Yard, he found that Caranthir had not waited for him. Sword in hand, in the dim light of the dawn, he was going through some exercise,that, to Erestor at least, seemed unbearably complicated. He stepped forth, and back, and aside; his glinting sword moved in harmony with his body as he did, rising and falling and slashing and thrusting. As Erestor watched, his movements grew swifter and swifter; still the sand beneath him scarcely moved, so precisely and lightly did he move his feet, in spite of his speed. Stepping, spinning, he fought - danced with - some imaginary opponent.

For a man that usually strode, and stalked, and barked, he did not lack a certain strange grace. That is, until Erestor coughed to announce his presence.

Head spinning in Erestor's direction, body still whirling the other way, Caranthir stumbled, sand spraying from under his boot. He righted himself with a growl, turned to face Erestor, properly this time.

'Oh,' he said, 'it is you.' 

_Has he forgotten me already?_ Erestor wondered. Or was this some Thargelion farce traditionally played at the expense of unsuspecting foreign scribes? He half expected heads to peek out from the windows in the high walls that surrounded the yard, laughing uproariously at yet another, vain and stupid enough to believe himself worthy of lord Caranthir's attention. 

But no such thing happened. Instead, Caranthir glowered at him.

'Come, then,' he said at last. 'And take off that robe.'

Erestor did as he was told. Caranthir himself, he now noticed, wore only a plain linen shirt besides his trousers and boots; he had worn nothing warmer when knocking at Erestor's door. His blood, it seemed, ran hot enough.

His robe discarded, his sword's scabbard left to rest beside Caranthir's on a low stone bench, Erestor moved to stand before his lord. His sword he gripped as hard as he could, knuckles blenching. He squared his shoulders. He clenched his jaw, gritted his teeth. For a moment he thought of the figure he must cut, standing there before his dark, graceful, war-like lord, and was tempted to throw his sword to the ground and run as fast as he could, all the way back to Aglon. Then Caranthir attacked.

Erestor had expected him to teach. Not that expert, sophisticated dance, So - but how to hold his sword, perhaps. Surely there was more to it than his own tense, anxious grip, arm held out stiffly in front of him? Or a few parries, a few steps...

Not so. Instead Caranthir, without a word, had raised his sword and struck, and Erestor had had to act on reflex, hurriedly stepping back even as he lifted his own sword to deflect the blow - barely. And that was something else he had not expected. Seeing warriors spar before - people of more or less equal strength and experience - he had seen something rather like a dance: blades (so it seemed to him, a distant observer) touching but swiftly, lightly. But this blow of Caranthir's nearly knocked the blade from his hand; he felt the impact in his entire arm, his shoulder, his whole body; a moment later, before he'd even had time to think - another blow. This time the sword fell from his hand.

He stood there for a moment, stunned. Caranthir stood considering him, then said, impatiently: 'Pick it up.' He obeyed.

Again he was assaulted. This time he excepted the force of the blows, parried them as he could (that he might attack did not even cross his mind then). The sword, which had seemed light enough before, began to weigh heavily in his hand, but at least he held onto it as he swung it from one side to the next. He held it - until Caranthir, with a lazy thrust, smartly tapped his elbow with the flat of his sword, and Erestor, pain shooting briefly in his arm, dropped his own.

He had parried perhaps five blows this time - each dealt, he now realised, slowly and lazily, with none of the speed and strength that Caranthir had displayed in his exercise. Still he picked up the sword, began again.

This time, it was a light tap on the crown of his head that caused him to loosen his grip in surprise - not so much that he let go, but enough that Caranthir, with a simple snap of the wrist, could disarm him with his next move. In the next exchange, a blow to the knee caused him to stumble and sprawl onto the fine, cool sand of the yard.

At least he was not injured. He was only out of breath and aching.

'Stand up,' said Caranthir behind him, sounding irritated.

He obeyed. 'I'm sorry, my lord,' he said. Caranthir scowled.

A moment later Erestor was knocked down again. And he was not only aching now, but angry. Had Caranthir summoned him only to beat him about the head and send him sprawling to the ground? _Be quiet_ , he told himself. What did it matter if his heart beat against his chest, or if he gritted his teeth angrily. _Do not lash out against your own lord._

_Or do._ Suddenly he remembered Caranthir's glowering at his apologies, and the way he would storm at a hint of meekness. The likes of Gartherdir or Colchallon, he thought, knew better than to try to soothe and escape his fits of rage; they weathered or faced them, and Caranthir's wrath faded, sometimes before it spilled out at all. They agreed, or fought him.

Before he could remember to be prudent, Erestor stood up, sword in hand, and faced Caranthir. 

'Enough,' he said. 'You said you'd make a warrior out of me, not a dummy to be beat at your leisure. I'm here to be taught.'

And, surprised by his own boldness, he threw his sword to the ground. 

He braced himself for a fit of rage. Caranthir merely raised an eyebrow. Erestor cringed inwardly. Then Caranthir did as he had hoped, if not as he had expected.

'What do you want me to teach, then?'

'How to hold my sword.'

'You might find it helpful to pick it up, then.' 

Erestor thought he saw the faintest of quivers stir Caranthir's lips, before he bent to pick up his sword.

Caranthir, as magnificent a warrior as he was, had apparently not given much thought to the training of a truly inexperienced soldier, or perhaps he had not quite trusted in Erestor's professed ignorance of sword fight. Still, when duly prompted, he was a passable teacher. He taught Erestor how to grip his sword - firmly, but not stiffly; wielding it with his entire arm, if not his body, not just his wrist. He showed him a few parries, and how to move smoothly from one to the other. Erestor knew it would be a long time before he mastered any of them - but at least he was not being beaten, and he was learning after all, slow though the process seemed to be. Once or twice, Caranthir even stepped behind him, to correct his posture, guide the movement of his arm. His fingers, even through Erestor's linen shirt, were surprisingly warm, and their touch oddly gentle. 

Erestor did not know how much time had passed when the bells rang; only that as soon as Caranthir heard them he strode back to the stone bench, and sheathed his sword. Then he turned back to Erestor, said 'I will see you on the morrow,' turned again and vanished. And that was that.

Erestor was left alone to sheathe his sword, and don again his brown robe, though the shirt beneath was stained with sweat and dust. Then he dragged his weary and bruised body to the main hall. As he made his way between the tables with his bowl, his sword beneath his arm, he suddenly imagined that all eyes were trained it. _What,_ he could already hear, _Erestor the scholar fancies himself a warrior?_ But then, he realised, noon was paying attention. 

So he ate heartily, his exertions having made him more voracious than usual. _It is not so bad after all_ , he reflected. His shoulder ached whenever he leant over to reach the pitcher of ale and refilled his goblet - but that ache, and the others, would fade quickly enough, and for now he felt well. 

Up there on the dais he caught a glimpse of Caranthir, clad not in his sparring shirt but in a black tunic embroidered with a thin tracery of gold, and trousers of dark red cloth; the sword at his side was not the short, blunt one used for training, but one whose ornate hilt peeked out of a gold and leather scabbard. 

What did it matter? As all ate Caranthir spared him not one glance.

 

***

 

He had been so hungry that he'd been among the last to leave the hall that morning. He did not even hurry afterwards, but loitered instead. The morning's events had been enough to disrupt the routine he'd already carefully established since his coming to Thargelion. Now he hardly felt like returning to his usual duties. He lingered in the great hall, then around the corridors. He started going east, towards the Swords' Yard, then changed his mind (for all that Caranthir had taught him, he'd hardly earned the right to train there). It was already fully day when at last he reached his study.

Rhungwen was already there, and hard at work. 

'You're late,' she said. Then she finished whatever sentence she was writing, dusted it. 'You stink,' she added. She turned to him. 'Your hair is tangled, and is that sand?'

Erestor leant on the doorway, and took what he hoped resembled a nonchalant attitude.

'Well,' he said, 'lord Caranthir and I have been sparring this morning.'

Rhungwen laughed. 

'We did!' he said. 'Truly! And it probably would not have happened if you'd let me escape him and his little soldiers yesterday.'

'Fine,' she said. 'You'll have to explain. But first change your clothes.'

Erestor leant the sword on the wall near the door, then slipped into his room. From the corner of his eye he saw Rhungwen return to her scrolls - glad to hear a story or a piece of gossip, certainly, but not at the expense of her work. So as she wrote, and he washed herself as best he could with a wet washcloth and little time, then slipped on a clean shirt, trousers and robe, and the thin shoes he usually wore, he told the story of all that had elapsed with Caranthir. When he was done, he returned to the study. Rhungwen sat in her chair, considering him with a curious eye.

'An odd story. Odder things have happened with our lord, no doubt, but I'd never heard of him taking an interest in a scholar like you or I. They're for his other brothers, he says, like lord Maglor or your lord Curufin, even lord Maedhros - not him. But if he thinks he can make a warrior out of you...'

'He says it's the law. That all here must know how to fight, and that everyone in Thargelion is a warrior. Are you?'

Rhungwen leant back. 

'I wouldn't call myself a warrior, but I was taught to wield a sword. My mother taught me first, then swordsmasters here when I came to the fortress.'

'Really? Why? You're a scribe, a scholar, not...'

'So I can defend myself against Orcs, and whatever horrors Morgoth may wish to send to us.'

'Orcs,' he repeated. 

For what would a battle involve, to one born in Beleriand, save Orcs? Orcs who could be cut down, if not cruelly, then without qualms. But Erestor's mind went to other battles.

Rhungwen must have, somehow, followed his train of thought.

'You were born in Valinor,' she said. 

He nodded.

'And did you...?'

'No,' he said. 'I was too young to wield a sword.'

He thought of a silhouette, and a ship, and a fight lost in winning. No. He would not think of it.


	4. Chapter 4

'So he did do it after all?' Colchallon said, head tilted. 'He's training you?'

'Indeed he is,' Erestor answered. It had only been seven days since he had first trained with Caranthir. Colchallon, who now seemed to think that they were friends, had cornered him in a corridor, and demanded to know. Erestor answered casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, though truly it was anything but.

Colchallon gave a low whistle, and smiled. 'Our lord is very impressive, isn't he? You certainly wouldn't spar with _me_. The two of you have been meeting every day?'

'Yes. An hour each day, before the morning bells ring.'

'Is it... bearable?'

Erestor shrugged.

'Oh, yes. Very bearable.'

'I'm only surprised I haven't seen you.'

'We spar alone, in the Knives' Yard. I think Caranthir closes the door, and no-one can- what?'

Colchallon had begun to laugh.

'An hour alone with our lord each day! Yes, it must be very bearable indeed. Enjoyable, even!'

Erestor felt himself beginning to blush.

'That's not what I meant,' he stammered. 'That's not what it _is_.'

It was not easy to convince Colchallon of the true nature of his and Caranthir's relationship. Each denial only drew out more teasing laughter from the youth. 'Even you must know how this sounds like!' he exclaimed.

The truth was, Erestor did know what it sounded like. He had wondered about it himself, each day. Why had Caranthir picked him? And what was the true nature of his and Caranthir's relationship, for that matter? He wondered and pondered, and Caranthir did little to enlighten him. With his brisk, seemingly straightforward ways he was somehow more opaque than most. He was not unlike the waters of lake Helevorn - dark and smooth, glass-like, but (so it was said) concealing great depths. But did Caranthir possess those depths, those hidden motives? Perhaps he was only what he seemed to be. Perhaps he had no plans for Erestor beyond what he had said, and indeed meant only to make a warrior out of him. His was to be the study of secretive things, Curufin had said before sending Erestor to Thargelion – and he'd been right, if not in the way he meant. Erestor knew how often he'd paused in his contemplation of the Naugrim's tongue, quill in hand, to contemplate his lord. 

At least Caranthir was less harsh, less rough-edged than he had been. He let down his guard - as much as it was possible for a man like him to do. As one week, then two, then three passed, Erestor felt less and less compelled to maintain a facade of stoic aggressivity to match Caranthir's. Not that Caranthir was warm, or cordial, but he seemed less intimidating now. Somehow, facing Caranthir in the training yard, and escaping more or less unscathed, took much of the fear out of him. Erestor felt different from when he had only been a scholar; he felt he moved differently about the fortress. Somehow he felt more aware of his own body, of his senses; not merely perceiving, with a scholar's critical eye, but feeling. He was more aware of his own lean strength.

And yet sometimes he thought differently, and felt the difference but an illusion. Then he walked the fortress in his scribe's garb, and thought the elf who fought with Caranthir each morning a different person from himself; or merely someone playing at being the warrior. For what was he, if not that? He'd never fought outside the training yard – a potted flower of a warrior, thinking itself strong without ever having endured either storm or drought. 

But had he ever wanted to step on a genuine battlefield? He dreaded to think of his response when faced with genuine danger. And besides, Caranthir was a son of Fëanor, and for that Erestor also dreaded to think of the enemy he might be made to face. Would he dare disobey then? And if so, was he a fool, or a hypocrite, to receive Caranthir's teaching now? If he had been able to, he would have asked his father (but he would not think of him); if he had dared, he would have written to his mother (but he thought he knew her thoughts already).

 _For now I obey_ , he told himself. _And how does one disobey Caranthir anyway?_

 

 

***

 

It was winter now, cold and sharp, but Erestor felt warm. The bench on which he sat, carved in smooth, white grey stone, seemed like ice both to the sight and touch, but Erestor wiped sweat from his brow. He was breathing hard from his exertions: now that he knew how to carry himself, how to hold his sword, parry and thrust, Caranthir had taken to sparring in earnest with him - long, strenuous fights, with nary a pause. 'When you're in the field,' Caranthir had said, 'Orcs won't give you a moment's respite.'

But now even he seemed winded, something about which Erestor felt a certain sly pride. He was sitting beside Erestor, hunched forward, forearms on his knees. In earlier days, Erestor would have thought Caranthir's staring - disapprovingly - at the ground an example of his intimidating manners; now he... was used to it, he supposed. He had never imagined sitting in companionable silence with such a one - a prince, a warrior, one of these fell sons of Fëanor... and yet there he was. It was strange - it made his skin, damp with sweat under his linen shirt, tingle, in a mixture of unease and excitement. He caught himself casting a sideways glance at Caranthir, then gazing at him, noticing his sharp, stern profile, and the tangle of fine, lustrous black hair that fell down his back, with only a careless knot at the nape of his neck. What would it be like to touch that neck, to slide fingers into that hair? Would Caranthir tense, and cringe away, like a wild beast, the muscles of his back flexing - would he bite? Or would he shudder? 

When Caranthir turned his head to look at him, Erestor nearly started - as if he had indeed been caught touching his lord. But Caranthir's gaze was more puzzled than anything. For a moment he seemed surprised, awkward even. And who would dare gaze at him, save in moments like this, finding him tired and unguarded?

Caranthir cleared his throat.

'You're doing well, Erestor,' he said. 'You learn fast.'

'I have a fine teacher.' Caranthir made a soft sound, half grunt, half harrumph. Something good-humoured (for him) enough that Erestor was emboldened to ask: 'But who taught _you_ , my lord? Was it your father?'

Caranthir arched an eyebrow.

'Why should it have been him? Trust me, even in those days he preferred to be in his workshop. In the end he was a fierce warrior, but it was rashness rather than skill that made him accomplish his deeds.' (Caranthir, speaking in a cool, flat voice, calling another being rash.) 'And he died.'

For a moment Caranthir was silent, though his voice and face had betrayed no emotion. He had turned his head, staring not at Erestor now but straight ahead. He went on.

'No, he learned alongside the rest of us. We were taught by old friends and servants of our grandfather's, people old enough to have lived in Middle-earth and fought there. And I learned fast - faster than you, Erestor.'

'I know you must have,' Erestor murmured. Caranthir did not seem to hear.

'I learned faster, and better, than any of my brothers. _That_ surprised them. I don't think they've ever admired me for anything else, before or since. I had never been a _lambengolmo_ and a poet like Makalaurë, or kingly like Maitimo. I was not Curufinwë Atarinkë, although that was a sin I shared with most of my brothers. I was not even a great hunter and friend to a Vala, like Tyelkormo and Ambarussa. But a warrior I could be, and easily.'

He smiled wrily, darkly.

'Some skill for my father to praise, at last, when he could remember to leave his workshop or the Silmarilli's strong room. My mother did not approve, but she was not there often.'

'And your first battle-'

Caranthir turned to him again, sharply, and his gaze on Erestor was sharp.

'What do you think?' And all of his anger seemed stirred again - only perhaps not again, for this seemed something different, deeper and more terrible still. 'Enough of me,' he barked, 'and enough of my father and brothers. They are talked of enough. What of yours?'

'They would be of no interest to you, my lord.'

'They would. What are you, the scholar son of a scholar father?'

'My mother was the scholar,' Erestor said. 'A student of stars and stone and metal. She learnt, and my father made. He was a smith.'

'Was he in Formenos?'

'He was. He made swords and shields and helms for your fathers' followers.'

'And did he use them?'

Erestor had not seen. He had been hurried down into the ship's hold, along with others like himself, young or unarmed. He had heard. _And I saw him, afterwards. My father was an obedient follower of yours. The deck was slippery, but not with rain, nor with seawater. I saw my father silhouetted against the stars, and did not dare speak to him. The bright fine sword he had forged for himself hung from his hand, dripping. He held his arm stiffly, away from his body, though he was not wounded. As though he could part his arm, and the hand that had wielded the sword, from his body._

He simply answered:

 _'_ He did, my lord.' 

'Do they live in Aglon still, your parents?'

'My mother does.'

'And your father?'

'He died.'

 _He died in the crossing_ , _swept overboard, it was said, though we were amongst the first to leave the harbour, and escaped Ossë's storm; though the sea was calm._

'What, did he die fighting?'

'After the fight, my lord.'

_And 'twas winning the fight that made him die, not losing._

'Was that why you did not learn to fight?'

'I had no taste for it, my lord.'

Caranthir stood up abruptly.

'Enough of this,' he said.

He snatched up his sword, and tossed Erestor's to him. Then he strode back to the centre of the yard, Erestor following.

They started sparring again. Caranthir's face was set, his eyes flinty. Erestor, not for the first time, had the feeling he'd touched some raw spot without being aware of it. Caranthir's attack was relentless now. Erestor had thought him fast and fierce before, but this was something else. Blows rained on him. Most he caught (though he felt the shocks), but many caught him - on the arm, leg, sometimes flank. But he stifled sounds of pain, having learned early that Caranthir misliked those. 

Still each blow caused him to stumble back, only barely avoiding falling. Once he did fall, sprawling in the sand, and for a moment Caranthir loomed above him, dark against the pale, overcast sky; but Erestor parried his next blow, then, gritting his teeth as he struggled to resist Caranthir's bearing down on him, scrambled back and then onto his feet again. But in his efforts to defend himself, Erestor had failed to find his bearings, and suddenly he found himself with his back to cold stone, trapped. Still Caranthir advanced, and he dealt such a great blow to Erestor's sword that Erestor - distracted also by his predicament - felt it slip through his fingers. The weapon clattered to the ground.

Then Caranthir was standing close to him, close enough to touch. Their chests nearly brushed as they breathed. But Caranthir's sword was between them, horizontal, level with Erestor's neck. As he stood there, silent, dazed, and trapped, Caranthir leant forward. The cold edge of the sword pressed against Erestor's throat. It was blunt, but Erestor's felt Caranthir's strength - restrained now, but latent. 

'Do you think I could kill you?' Caranthir asked softly. 'Look at me.'

Erestor had been looking down, between their bodies, looking down as if to see the line of cold steel that pressed against his throat. Now he raised his eyes, to meet Caranthir's dark grey gaze.

'You will not,' he said.

'I have killed before. I have even killed Elves. Is that not what you think, each day that you see me?'

'No, my lord.'

'You do and you should.' (Did he? With Curufin it had been easy to forget, for though his lord was sharp he was always courteous, and careful, and cunning. But Caranthir... Caranthir was speaking again, his mouth close to Erestor's.) 'But you have not killed. Your smooth scholar's hands are unstained. You were only glad to travel by ship when the fighting was done, instead of braving the ice.'

Erestor said nothing. Caranthir's gaze bore into his, and seemed to hold an ill-contained fury - or perhaps an anger contained too long, and going far beyond Erestor himself. And he felt anger rising in him too, though he tried to stifle it – _not now._ Caranthir went on.

'I'll have only warriors here. Not easily-frightened scribes with censorious eyes.'

'That I am not,' said Erestor.

'If I required it of you, would you be brave enough to sully your hands?'

Erestor, in spite of himself and of his fear, gave a short laugh.

'My lord,' he said, 'the bravery would be in disobeying you.'

Then it was Caranthir who laughed - an equally brief bark of laughter, and rather mirthless.

'True enough,' he said.

The blade was removed from Erestor's throat. Erestor saw it from the corner of his eye, glistening, as Caranthir slid it from between their bodies. He tossed it aside. He did not step back.

And now they were standing close to another, their breath mingling; and Erestor was afraid, and yet unwilling to step back. He looked into Caranthir's face, which seemed rough-hewn, angular, and at his reddened cheeks, and at the black tangle of his hair, escaping its ties; he raised his eyes to Caranthir's, of a grey so dark as to be nearly black; and he held his furious gaze.

Then Caranthir bent down and kissed him, attacked him – as Erestor, without even knowing it, had expected, feared and wanted. So he raised his hands, which had hung lifelessly at his sides before, and grasped the front of Caranthir's shirt, and shoved him hard, as if to reassure himself of the strength dearly learnt at Caranthir's hands. Then, feeling Caranthir inching back, he bunched his fists tighter still into his shirt, and drew him back close. Caranthir had stilled, as if taken aback by Erestor's momentary defiance; but as Erestor brought their lips together again, he renewed his kiss; his hands cupped Erestor's cheeks, fingers sliding into Erestor's hair. Their mouths moved against one another; Erestor felt Caranthir's teeth, and bit back. Caranthir's chest, beneath his shirt, felt hard and warm against his knuckles, so he opened his hands, and laid them on his chest, fingers splayed and eager. As he dug his fingertips into Caranthir's warm skin, he felt the other's nipples pebble under his palms; till he slid his hands roughly up, grasping Caranthir's shoulders instead, and drawing him still closer, till they were chest to chest. 

They broke apart for air. Erestor, looking on Caranthir again, was reminded of just who he was, and under other circumstances he might have shied away. But anger, and desire, had somehow eroded the distance between them.

'Don't do that again,' he said.

'Don't do what?'

'With the sword. Don't do it or...'

'Or what? You'll turn kinslayer and murder me yourself?'

'No, damn you!' 

Somehow his exclamation only made Caranthir laugh softly, his breath brushing against Erestor's neck. He whispered into Erestor's ear:

'I won't do it again. I promise, and you know how seriously we take our promises.' 

To which Erestor could only answer: 'Damn you.' And 'damn you' again, when Caranthir's lips touched his ear; and when Caranthir bit his neck – and went on with the fight, in other ways.


	5. Epilogue

 

It was evening, and he was in Caranthir's private apartments, waiting. Close by was the open door that led to the bed chamber he now and then shared with Caranthir, though he rarely spent the night. Part of him wanted to go there, and wait in the vast, canopied bed, but he remained in the anteroom, sitting on the windowsill.

In the courtyard below, Caranthir was training alone, slashing the air as he had done on the first day he had taught Erestor. He had trained with Erestor earlier, but as night drew on he had returned to the Knives' Yard. He had not told Erestor why; for all that they sometimes shared a bed, there were many things he did not say. His gestures spoke of anger – at what, Erestor could not say exactly. But as he watched Caranthir's movement smoothed, and, strange as it was, he seemed to find peace, of sorts, in fighting.

There was a sound behind Erestor – the door opening. He turned quickly, saw Gartherdir come in, bearing some scrolls, and abruptly stood up from the sill. 

'I was waiting for lord Caranthir,' Erestor said. 'He has given me leave...' Gartherdir merely nodded, smiling. He did not seem surprised, Erestor realised. 'Oh. You _know_.'

'Yes,' Gartherdir said. 'The fortress has few secrets for me, trust me. Is he in the yard now?'

Erestor nodded, and Gartherdir, after setting the scrolls down on a small desk by the door, came to stand beside him at the window.

'Which is it, I wonder?' Gartherdir said softly. 'The parley with the Dwarves this morning, or the letter from lord Celegorm?'

'The parley with the Dwarves...?'

'Yes. I warned him not to try to speak Khuzdul, and I almost hoped he would listen, considering how Dwarf-like he can be – don't tell him that – but no. Your good friend Rhungwen did her best to placate them, but...'

Erestor turned to him, though Gartherdir still peered down at the courtyard.

'Were there translation mistakes?'

'Oh, no,' said Gartherdir lightly. 'No fault of yours. The Dwarves simply mislike our knowing their language, that is all.' Then he spoke more softly, and said: 'Perhaps it is none of that. It may be nothing. Or it may be the Oath, or it may be our lord's brothers. Even his mother, or his father.'

For a long moment they watched Caranthir move in silence.

Gartherdir spoke again.

'He's been teaching you well?'

'Yes,' said Erestor, 'and no. He has taught me how to use a sword. I can defend myself now. I think I can kill. I think I had rather have been taught when to use a sword, or why.'

Gartherdir sighed.

'I'm afraid that is not something to be taught, or learned. Elsewise I would gladly I have learned it, and taught it to that pig-head man I call lord and love.'

Erestor turned to look at him, but Gartherdir laughed, and met his eye, and said:

'Not in that way! Be reassured. I have a wife whom I love, and our only grief is that we are childless. But I am Caranthir's chief councillor, the closest of his servants. I would not bear him if I did not love him dearly, for all his faults.'

'I understand,' said Erestor.

'I am not sure that you do,' Gartherdir answered, half-smiling and half-solemn. 'But perhaps you will. Who knows, if some hurt befalls me, you may take my place at Caranthir's side.'

'I doubt it. And besides, I do not wish you harm.'

'Some other lord, then, or lady, to whom you will teach when to wield the sword and when to sheathe it. If they can be made to see you, and hear you!'

'Maybe,' said Erestor. 'For now I do not think I will return to Aglon, and I cannot be innocent of what Caranthir has taught me.'

Dusk drew on. Here the windows opened to the east, as if Caranthir had wanted to forget the very memory of the West whence he'd come.

'It does not matter,' Erestor said to Gartherdir, to himself, to the gathering dark. 'He will not hear. No matter what he may say of them, his brothers will always come first, and no matter what _we_ say, he will always follow the oath. And if it comes to war again, the warriors he made of us will only have leave to serve or betray.'


End file.
